Stumble, Fall, Break
by Ghibli
Summary: Cameron House character vignettes. Not enough to fall, only to stumble. The story of their lives.


Title: Stumble, Fall, Break.

Summary: Cameron / House character vignettes. Not enough to fall, only to stumble. The story of their lives.

Spoilers: None, really, but it was written with 'Acceptance' in mind.

This isn't quite my usual style (if I even have a 'style'), so it might not appeal to many of you. However, if you do like it, it would be awesome if you would let me know.

* * *

Fish out the key from the bottom of the purse.

Open the door, lock it behind you.

Kick of your shoes, lay the coat over the back of the chair; place your purse on the kitchen table.

So predictable. And yet, today hadn't been a typical day, and you don't mind your subconscious throwing insults and swear words at you.

Wine wouldn't do it today, she knew. Too refined, too soft, sweet. So she takes one beer from the fridge, and another. And then another one; each time the clock chimes, she has an opened bottle on the floor next to the couch. It's predictable, just like so many ways of hers. The futility of words, the indignation in anger, the utter uselessness of standing up for herself. The slight buzz is like an upper for her thoughts, swarming and crawling, prowling around every weakness in her defenses. And they're good in finding those cracks. They chip away until the walls are a ruin, unable to be brought back up to proper working order.

The empty bottle makes a hollow clink as it touches the wooden floor, and her head sags against the back of the couch. Defeated in the lonely sanctuary that is her apartment.

She has stood up for herself. But only when she had to. Pretty and soft spoken, she was more or less used to being overlooked for her accomplishments, but being acknowledged for her appearance. That hadn't changed over the years.

She was back being thirteen, and frowning at her math teacher as she'd been caught drifting off. Staring outside at the brittle leafs which the wind had picked up and deposited neatly in the corner of the opposite classroom. She had looked outside because she was bored and lonely, not because she was mathematically challenged. The questions had actually been too simple, just like the questions of yesterday, and those of tomorrow. But how to tell that, without gaining glares and even more envy? She'd been there, done that. Never again.

_Notice me_, but for the wrong reasons. It seemed to float around her like a scentless perfume, one she wanted to bottle up and throw away for good.

She was back being eighteen, and being the prom queen. She had gained popularity, beauty. But no friendships. At least not the lasting kind. Superficial was the word on the street, and it fitted a lonely existence. But it didn't fit Allison Cameron.

Twenty-one, standing at a grave. Surrounded by the masses, alone in her grief. She loved him. She had. Honest. She smiled a smile born from defeat and stood, the alcohol knocking her off balance. Not enough to fall, only to stumble. The story of her life.

Never crashed, never burned. Never quite made it to the total-loss stage. Fixable, always.

Perhaps she longed to crash, to be destroyed. Perhaps that was why she couldn't help but take on the pain of her patients. Especially those who didn't have a life to look forward to. Emphasize enough, and maybe you become the terminal patient.

* * *

Fool. Fool for having fallen in love with Stacy, for still loving her. For being an asshole. For being brilliant in his field, and an idiot with people. And all that on purpose.

Sarcastic, bitter, rude. Driving away even those who cared for him, all in a need to what, protect himself? The scotch had lost most of its burning as it slid down his throat. Yeah, protect himself. Egocentric bastard that he was.

Denial. Acceptance. He wasn't in denial, but not quite in acceptance either. He didn't want to accept it. His leg, his life, his handicap. Because damnit, it was a handicap. He wasn't the same Gregory House that he used to be. No slam dunks, no hiking trails over the Blueridge Mountains. Snark had become spite, sarcasm had morphed into bitterness. Constantly sinking deeper and deeper, allowing that heart of his to become as black as coal. And he knew it.

But didn't change.

Never change. He had changed enough to last him a lifetime. He wouldn't do it again, even if it ended up killing him. Because hadn't that been God's plan before? If God even existed. He was worse than the devil, 'saving' people from death while they didn't want to be saved. Inflicting pain upon those who didn't deserve it. Offing those who had more reason to live then he.

Vicodin, Scotch. If that wasn't a recipe for disaster, he might as well hang his medical degree on a dying tree in the Sahara and parch to death. Up, down, down, down. That's who he was, a miserable bastard. Darker than the night, his eyes the color of day.

And yet… people cared.

Get up, glass in hand. Stumble. And fall. Crawl back up, ignore the pain. The Vicodin hasn't quite kicked in yet.

Another gulp of Scotch, and then fling it at the wall. Shatter, not quite a thousand pieces, but enough to resemble him. Never to be repaired. Not by Stacy. Not by Cameron.

Why couldn't she see. He's broken, and he likes it.


End file.
